Come file off the rust of my grommets.
I have been longing to blow smoke into your apertures.
You remember the frozen steel of that stiff winter night,
How gleaming oil coursed across the gouged surface
Of that thing I have
And pooled on the pavement past where years of scraping have worn a hole.
The wet orange film from my rusty pipes
Will collect in your threadings too.
If they stick cold like before,
I can apply the torch, the glycol, the graphite dust,
Whatever works to free the parts.
Or we can use my cadmium bearing
Or cut new threads with your rotor.
What things we have.
I know my gears are worn to nubs by now.
I know some parts have been replaced
And others are broken or missing.
With all that gleaming chrome you probably can do better than me these days. When you roll past, I’m sure they all ask to polish you,
And I’m sure that’s long become corrosive.
So don’t think I want that.
It isn’t just because you’re shiny.
I always felt for your every rumble,
Even before the electroplating.
I always want to know what gear you’re in.
I listen for things rattling loose as though you were my own engine.
Honestly, with all my valves coming open
And all my tubes rotten through
And the gouges, the scrapes, the holes in my side,
I wonder how many more rotations I can tick off before I’m scrap. So I figure I have to put steam through this whistle just once So you’ll hear it and know
How I feel.
